


Don't Be Afraid Of The Dark

by ectoBisexual



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Necromancy, Past Lives, Sexual Tension, Soulmates, Tattoos, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-10 15:31:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6962626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectoBisexual/pseuds/ectoBisexual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stranger pursues forward until they're almost pressed together, barely an inch of space between them; still smirking, a delicate, suggestive turn of his lips that makes Gerard's blood pulse. In the dull streetlight, the alley throws eerie shadows across the stranger's face, and Gerard gets a good look at him: dark hair all tangled around his face and ghostly pale, with tattoos creeping up his neck. He's got dimples, Gerard realises with a shot of horror.</p><p>Holy shit, he's hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The full moon beats languidly down on the quiet San Francisco streets, the handful of stars scatter the black expanse of a sky like a pile of cigarette ash, and Gerard Way is stuck taking out the trash  _again._

It's a Saturday night. The streets are quieter around this time here, even quieter than his middle-of-nowhere Jersey ghost town normally is, the air more arid and cool than the humid day had allowed. It was a bastard of a day, too; _sticky,_ the worst kind of hot, especially when you were stuck in a too-tight, scarcely-washed uniform all day. Gerard can feel the bags dragging down the skin under his eyes like goddamn leaden weights, a deep dark grey he'll scowl at in the mirror later. It's always the worst kind of drag, having to accept that he'll never get rid of those; senior year and three part-time jobs will do that to you.

He studies six hours a day, works ten, sleeps barely seven. Crunching hours like that, he's pretty much accepted that he can kiss goodbye to _any_ semblance of hope that he'll ever see the pale underside to his eye sockets pure again. It's hardly as though he's complaining; well, not out loud, anyway. 

He makes a face at the passing blur of his reflection in the window of a closed door, bares his teeth at the black and blue shadows the long streets throw at darkened glass, his ghostly pale face; he smiles to himself when a scantily clad woman hurries past, shooting him a judgmental look. Click, click, away go her fantastically high heels, and he's alone on the street again. Fucking of course he is. They always put him on garbage duty, like his short ass and brilliant mess of a head of hair isn't going to get him stabbed out here.

To be real, he'd probably be a lot happier with his night if it wasn't for the trash, which is totally near the top on his list of least favourite things to do while he's working for Acquerello's, the fancy Italian joint he's been scraping up minimum wage at for about a year now. He mainly cleans the dishes, scrubs furiously at the floors (which, in his defense, have triple the impossible-to-rid, oh-god-he-doesn't-want-to-know stains on them) or occasionally serves tables, though he has the sneaking suspicion that his social manners and general appearance aren't a total bonus for potential employers, hence why he keeps winding up in the kitchens and back rooms of wherever he works for. He's fine with that, really, with all of it: just so long as these assholes aren't making him take the trash out.   
  
"Need a cigarette," he mutters to himself, fingers itching to just drop the piles of boxes he's been stacked up with and light up in front of the closed laundromat. 

He's 99% sure he's just being sought out because he's small and polite and easy to boss around, but whatever. What little stragglers are left on the streets, either coming to or from their cars and heading for restaurants just like the one he's been slaving away in, watch him as he struggles to balance three gigantic boxes of trash on his small frame. Somehow, nearly every night they can, they expect him to struggle down the strip of restaurants where people can stare, down another street, around the corner of _that_ street, ad down the ridiculously narrow alleyway that leads to the garbage at the end of the way, where he then has to struggle with his keys until he can get the damn thing open to rid the trash once and for all in one of those great, big dumpsters he hates so much. Seriously, one day he's just gonna climb right in there after it, because what the hell.

The job stinks- literally- and is damn near impossible for a 5'7" teenager with barely enough arm span to reach the top shelf when he's doing the dishes. More than once he's found himself shooting up in bed from nightmares about locking himself in one of those garages. He doubts they'd even look for him if he did; everyone else hates making the trip that much.

Gerard hums to himself as he turns a corner. A Ramones song he'd been playing at work earlier in the night when there weren't as many customers. During the dinner rush, they play nothing but classical Italian bullshit and pop songs, as if the customers would actually complain otherwise. God, he really wants a goddamn cigarette.

He's not allowed to complain out loud, because it's his fault he's in this predicament, anyway. It was  _him_ who chose to balance finishing school with three different jobs, and  _him_ who persuaded Mikey not to quit band just because they couldn't afford it. His mom was diagnosed when he was fourteen, which is when he started working nights, below minimum wage and under the table. What was she supposed to do? Feeding two hungry teenagers was pricey enough without chemo costs to worry about.

He couldn't stand the look in her eyes when she had to explain to them why they couldn't afford takeout that weekend, or why they had to walk to school because she couldn't afford gas. He especially hated it when she started talking about cutting down on the treatment just so that they could make bills. He rocked choir back then and had a pretty steady group of friends. Now he's lucky if he gets a weekend off to catch up on homework.  
  
It's just him, Mikey, and his mom, anyway. They get along just fine. Next year he'll graduate, and he'll have way more time to balance the jobs. It's just a matter of waiting.

Gerard is about halfway around the street towards the alleyway when he picks up the presence of mind to notice that somebody is following him.

He glances around, wary to the sound of footsteps. There are still a few people out, passing the near-empty streets and throwing horror movie shadows, but no one seems to be anywhere near him. A little way's off, an old lady is hobbling her way along with a walker. He doubts it was  _her_ that was following him, but still... he sets off again, letting it go. He's just descending down the long, narrow alleyway lit stingily by the dim overhead street lights when he hears it again, this time a slow shuffle close to his right, and when he turns to look, he catches a shadow, quick as lightening, ducking to the left and from his view.

Cold dread sets in, and Gerard stops dead in his path. "Hello?" he calls, knowing damn well he sounds like a girl about to die in a horror movie. Jesus. He always knew he would die in a creepy alley somewhere, but Jersey? He at least thought he'd be somewhere more interesting by the time it happened.

"Hello?" he tries again, staring hard at the leering shadows that meet him from each side of the narrow walls. There appears to really be no one, only the usual grimy streets and old, rotting boxes normally left out to the mercy of the sun. Heart hammering for real now, Gerard turns and hurries for the end of the alley at double the pace, feet hard on the cold cement, almost at a run when his heart jitters with the idea that he can hear footsteps again.

When he gets to the end of the alley, he's almost certain no one's following him, because it's dead silent now, and all that meets him when he stares back down the morbidly shadowed hall are the shadows themselves, still as anything and deadly silent. All that meets him is a distilled absence; shadow and silence.

Gerard turns for the garage and hisses out a sigh. "God, I need more sleep," he mutters, reaching for his keys.

This is always the worst part. Having to balance boxes and wrestle the garbage bags while he fishes around in his pocket for the tiny key that unlocks the pad at the bottom of the heavy metal door. He grapples with the cardboard and plastic, grunting quietly in frustration when he can't quite get it. He ends up just dropping everything in a huff, scowling down at the mess of bottles and garbage before gathering the strength of mind to unlock the garage. He struggles with the boxes again, making a frustrated noise that kind of sounds like a duck when he tries to reach up and throw them over. He  _finally_ manages to do so, wiping his hands on his pants and blowing stray hair from his eyes.  _The worst,_ he thinks, cursing his co-workers. He needs ten showers, like, yesterday.  
  
He amost drops his goddamn keys trying to leave the garage, jumping for the door he's pushed too high again and finally getting it down with a startled kitten-yelp as it crashes to the ground in a clang of metal and chaos. The shock of that is almost enough to scare his heart into its last panicked flutter of the evening, or would have been, were he not suddenly aware that someone is standing behind him and laughing.  
  
Gerard spins around fast enough to give himself whiplash. 

There's a guy standing there. He's a stranger, not someone Gerard's ever seen before, and he's got his back against one of the alley walls that are mostly hidden by shadows, leaning his coltish frame there to watch Gerard. He's got a cigarette in one hand burning cherry red, and the other is nothing but the blackness, like he's come right from the walls of the darkened streets.

"Something funny?" Gerard says after a moment, once his initial jolt of fear has worn off into a strong feeling of embarrassment. Who the fuck is this random guy to just stand there and laugh at him? It's not his fault he struggles with the door almost every time he tries to open or close it.

The stranger steps forward, suddenly, and the first thing to catch in the moonlight is the unmistakable fact that he is smirking. "You're cute, is all," he says, like it's a matter of fact business, and then he comes straight for Gerard.  
  
Suddenly he's being backed up against an alley wall, skin meeting the cold brick surface where it rides up at the back. The jolt of temperature is jarring, and he goes still, too paralysed with fear to move.

The stranger pursues forward until they're almost pressed together, barely an inch of space between them; still smirking, a delicate, suggestive turn of his lips that makes Gerard's blood pulse. In the dull streetlight, the alley throws eerie shadows across the stranger's face, and Gerard gets a good look at him: dark hair all tangled around his face and ghostly pale, with tattoos creeping up his neck. He's got  _dimples,_ Gerard realises with a shot of horror.

Holy shit, he's hot.

He's unbearably close now, a distance Gerard would normally say is  _way the fuck_ out of his comfort zone. Their hips are almost touching. Inches away, the stranger is all dark looks and gleaming eyes and his breath, visible in the cold air between them, meets Gerard in a faint white cloud.

Still frozen, Gerard remains wide-eyed and still, staring up at the guy for all the time it takes him to bring his hand to Gerard's face.  
  
Precariously gentle, the stranger drags his thumb across Gerard's lower lip, the skin there smooth and dry. His eyes drop from Gerard's to where his thumb rests, against the corner of Gerard's mouth. His eyes flicker back and without missing a beat, he asks, "Can I kiss you?"

Gerard has no idea what to say. All the terror and the confusion seem caught up in his throat now, trepidation meant to choke him.  _No!_ He thinks, his thoughts a frenzy of last minute desperation.  _What the fuck are you doing? Just push him away and run, idiot._

But despite himself, despite his thoughts, and every part of him that still wants to run, Gerard finds himself nodding.

The stranger's lips brush his and then just hover there, an invitation. They're surprisingly warmer than the air would suggest, and velvet soft against Gerard's. He can smell the cigarettes on his breath. The stranger waits barely touching him, until Gerard finally, gasping in a surprised breath at himself, leans forward and pushes their mouths together.

Molten hot heat swoops and fills the lower part of his belly. Something takes over his body; before Gerard knows what he's doing his eyes are slipping shut and he's tearing his arms around the stranger, pulling him close. The other boy's body presses his flush against the wall, hands tight on Gerard's hip, the back of his neck. Gerard tilts his head and moans into the kiss without meaning to, without thinking; and that's exactly what he isn't doing: thinking. His head swims as the stranger's neck brushes his, warm, thrumming with life. Blood rushes straight to his face and tears through his veins, shot through with adrenaline as he claws at the material of the boy's shirt, feeling for the warmth of his back through the fabric, kissing him deeper, brighter, bringing him  _closer-_

The stranger backs away with an amused smile, and in the dark of the alley, his eyes are bright and livid, like a cat's. Gerard stares in bewilderment as the stranger gives him a fleeting look. He's still smiling. Ominously, he says, "I'm Frank. I'll see you around, Gee."

And then he's just. Gone.  
  
Gerard stares after him, the space he had been, for a few minutes afterwards. His knees are buckling and threaten to give out. He's suddenly exhausted, limbs aching and heart still hammering dully like it's trying to escape his chest. Whether it was adrenaline or fear or  _something_ else flooding him, he has no idea. But the stranger isn't coming back. He's alone in the alley now.

After a long, long few minutes, Gerard pushes himself off of the wall, picks up his key from where he had dropped it on the ground, and slowly makes his way back to Acquerello's.


	2. Chapter 2

It's late when he gets home, and Mikey is long since passed out on the couch. Gerard finds himself checking for booze out of habit, sniffing around like a mother hen. Kid's still way too young; he doesn't need to be getting into the same kind of shit Gerard was at his age, because look at how he turned out.

He creeps past the living room to switch off the tv set before sluggishly making his way to the kitchen in the hopes that dinner doesn't taste too shitty reheated. He cooks most nights he can, when he's home in between shifts and has the time to whip something up for Mikey and his mother, mainly because it's less dangerous for all of their healths if he keeps Mikey away from the kitchen. By the time he's finished whatever shift he was rushing away to, whatever he's made is usually just a soggy, tasteless pile of mush left over for him. His mouth still tastes like cigarettes. His own, smoked hastily while he sat in the passenger side of his car after work and tried not to have a brain aneurysm, and the stranger's- Frank's. He was hoping to wash the taste out of his mouth with some decent food, but, well. He pours himself a glass of water, figuring it'll have to suffice. He stands there watching the sad little macaroni dish spin, wondering when his life got this terrible.

"Gerard?"

He spins around with lightning-speed intensity, and in the process, drops his glass. It shatters to the floor noisily, water spilling unceremoniously at his feet. "Shit," he blurts, than realises his mother is staring disapprovingly and opens his mouth to apologise.

"Sorry." She says it before he can. Gerard shakes his head, strands spilling messily across his forehead, and bends to clean it up. He can see his mom watching from the corner of his eye, arms crossed, waiting patiently. What is she still doing up? He doesn't bother wondering what she's doing out of bed; the times she's out of the hospital, Donna Way is rarely ever sitting. But at this hour? Normally her meds knock her out around 8 or 9.   
  
When he's finished with all the broken glass, Gerard scrapes the mess into the trash, noting with some disdain that it's getting full and he'll have to take it out soon. Great, he thinks. Another garbage run.

"I'll buy some more shit for the kitchen next time I get paid," he promises, washing his hands with dish soap. "Did I tell you I'm probably gonna get paid a decent bonus for working over Christmas? We can order from the expensive Thai place, eat it on some real goddamn fancy china. I'm getting sick of this low-price health kick bullshit, what about you?"

"Gerard," says his mom, and this time, he turns and gets a proper look at her. 

His mom is hardly the kind of person you could call unkempt, even if it is 2 in the morning and she's standing in the middle of their dingy kitchen sporting messy hair and a ratty blue dressing grown. Her hair is pulled back in a haphazard, thin braid; still fuckin' kicking it as far as her style goes, compared to what Gerard probably looks like after a nine hour shift at Acquerello's. Her cheeks are flushed with sleep, a healthy flush that makes Gerard think of blood and breath and functioning organs. Even sleep-disheveled, his mom is beautiful. Ready for both a ball and a battle, that's what they always used to joke. And she's frowning. Right at Gerard.

"Have I done something?" he asks, immediately thinking of the bottle under his bed. With his mom, it's always better to jump to conclusions than to play dumb.

She shakes her head, strands of hair falling loose. "No, it's not what you've done, it's what you haven't done, Gee. Did you skip breakfast this morning?"

"I had to," he says stupidly, passing her with a shrug. "Phone ran out of charge, so my alarm never went off. I would have been late to work. I wasn't," he throws in, grinning at his mom, "before you ask."

She shakes her head anyway, as if this news just distresses her more. "What about lunch, idiot? Did you have  _lunch?_ "

"Sure I did," he says, and turns around to take his mush from the microwave. He raises a fork to his lips and speaks through a mouthful of food. "Why's that, mom?"  
  
"I'm worried about you, asshole," she says, in that fond way that makes him grin. Gerard turns around. She sounds kind of done with him, but her face is hard, brows furrowed and mouth a stiff line. "You're barely getting any time to eat and sleep."

He holds up his bowl defensively. "Hey, I'm eating your nuked pasta, aren't I?"

"When do you ever go out with your friends anymore? Ray stopped by today, y'know. Why don't you take next Saturday off, go out and do something with him?"

"Ray and I aren't really friends anymore. He was probably here for Mikey," Gerard says with a shrug, scooping up another mouthful of food. It doesn't even really taste like anything anymore.

"Pete?"

Gerard snorts. "Pete's  _definitely_ here for Mikey."

"It's not about Ray and Pete," she says, sighing sharply. She puts her head in her hand, leaning against the counter. "It's about you, wasting your life working. You're only eighteen-"

"Twenty-one in two and a half years," he jokes. "I'm managing."

"That's my point," she groans, getting up to take his empty bowl from him. He doesn't protest as she places it under a spray of water in the sink, so that he doesn't have to work quite as hard when he undoubtedly does the dishes tomorrow. "You shouldn't have to manage on your own," she mutters. "You're still a kid-"

"Christ, don't give me the 'you're still my little boy' speech," he says, trying to play it off with a laugh, even though it sounds weak. He wants to go to bed. He kind of wants to tell her about what happened tonight, but there isn't a doubt in the world that she'll just find some way to make it his fault, and lecture him for an hour about the danger of making out with random strangers in alleyways. Even to him, it sounds ridiculous. "I'm doing fine, mom, quit worrying all the time. I promise we can spend more time together over Christmas, as soon as I'm on break. As soon as we have time."  _If you're not in the hospital_ goes unspoken. His mom looks at him as if he might as well have said it.

"Goodnight," he tries, as a way of asking permission to leave.

She continues to stare at him, her expression unreadable in the dim kitchen, and then shakes her head, freeing what was left of the loose braid. Gerard turns to leave.

"You were late."

He stops in his tracks. Then, carefully, he turns around and spares a glance at his mom. "What?"

"You were home late," she repeats, looking tired. "Do you think I don't know your shifts? Work ended at 1. You walked through the door at 1:50. It doesn't take you almost an hour to drive home, Gee."

Gerard tries to keep up a brave face, but just ends up looking down guiltily. He was late. Never mind that he'd stayed back at work an extra ten minutes serving a particularly rude drunk guy; the real reason he was back so late had been the fact that he had walked the alley way to the garage again, back and forth and up and down, scratching his arm and feeling more nervous than cold. 

_Something_ had wanted for him to go back, some buried, animal part of him that still wondered if Frank would come back. 'See you around' had been vague, but it had given him this ridiculous sense of anticipation; of  _hope._ He's sure now that what the guy actually meant was 'goodbye, thanks for being so easy', but still.

He'd spent nearly a half hour just pacing, too nervous to look at the actual wall in question, before he'd started to feel embarrassed and headed back to his car for a cigarette. Now he just feels lame.  
  
"I went for a walk," he says finally, because it's not exactly untrue. His mom looks like she thinks that it's the most blatantly obvious lie in all of history, but she just shakes her head at him.

"Honey, you know I don't mind if you  _see_ people, but-"

"Mom, I really did go for a walk," he insists. Suddenly, he's exhausted. He might as well just tell her the truth- or an edited version of it- to get it over with, so that he can go to bed. "I... thought I saw this guy earlier, and I walked back to see if he was there again. He wasn't. It was stupid."

She smiles a little at him. Still hopeful that he has a friend, he thinks. Oh God, if only she knew. "Someone you recognised?"

He opens his mouth to say no, but then considers. He hadn't...  _recognised_ him, not exactly. It was more like feeling pulled to him, compelled to do whatever the guy wanted. Hell, he probably would have gotten on his knees if he was asked;  _not_ that that's what he's thinking about. He's just a lonely, desperate teenage boy. Of course he's gonna jump at the chance to make out with the first decently hot guy he sees. It's been way too long since he's had any kind of meaningful human interaction that had any purpose other than familial or servitude. 

That doesn't explain the way the blood rushed to his head, that full-bodied shiver, that fell swoop in his gut when Frank had just  _looked_ at him, for Christ's sake. No, that had been something else entirely.

"No," he says finally, firmly. "No, it wasn't that. He was just weird, I think. Kinda got my attention."  
  
"Well, I'm glad you're safe," she says eventually, shaking her head a little. He notices the bags under her eyes then, almost as bad as his own.

"Mom, you should go to bed."

She waves a hand. "I can take care of myself, smartass. Did you remember to get the milk?"

"Shit," he swears, realising what the feeling of having forgotten something that's been plaguing him all night is. "Aw, mom, I forgot. I'm sorry. I'll go out first thing in the morning, okay?"

Her lips turn up into a watery smile. "Don't stress about it. You can just get some when you're out with Mikey, right?"

Out with Mikey. The realisation dawns on his face, and his mom's brow drops. "You did remember you're taking him to the concert tomorrow, right? You're not working?"

"No-- nah, I'm not working, 'course I remembered," he lies, anxiety already dawning in his gut over the fact that he'll have to wake up even earlier to call in sick. Fuck. He'd totally forgotten. 

She smiles, and there's so much affection there, so much love for him, that Gerard really does want to be the fantastic son she thinks he is. "I love you, okay?" She leans forward and pats him on the arm like he's a dog. He kisses the top of her head; her hair is soft and frizzy, smells of strawberries.

"Love you too, mom."

She gives him a slap and turns to leave the kitchen. "Go to bed," she says. "It's way too late for you to still be screwing around the kitchen." She gives him a fleeting smile, and disappears down the hall, the sound of her shutting her bedroom door like a quiet breeze on a silent night.

 

When Gerard wakes up, it's to the sight of his brother standing over his bed with his bass guitar and singing  _Wake Up Little Susie._

"Ugh," he says, by way of greeting. Ever eloquent. He tugs the sheets over his head, wanting the sun and everyone else to just fuck off.

Mikey hops off of his bed with a shit-eating grin, making the mattress bounce so that Gerard is forced to sit up and squint at the morning light. "How do you even  _know_ that song, you're like, 12."

"Fuck off," says Mikey, jostling his mattress again. "Mom says you gotta get up. She needs you to drive her to the hospital on your way taking me into the city."

"I was gonna  _walk_ you into the city," Gerard complains, but his heart is already hammering with the thought of why his mom needs to go into the hospital. Mikey speaks before he can really start panicking, as if he can read exactly what Gerard is feeling. 

"It's just a check-up," he says slowly, watching his brother over the rim of his glasses. It's quiet for a moment between them, kind of awkward. Gerard turns his head and tries to read the digital clock before he remembers that it's been more than an hour ahead for ages now. 

"What time is it?"

"Nine. Come on, dude, we're gonna be late."

Gerard groans, pulling himself from bed. He had to wake up at 6 just to call in and pretend to be sick, which felt a lot like throwing money down the drain. He allows himself to be pulled from his room and pushed in the direction of the bathroom, even as he insists that he doesn't need a shower. Mikey informs him that he smells like trash, to which Gerard insists that Italian food isn't trash. The bathroom door is slammed in his face, leaving him alone with their leaky faucet.

When he emerges his mom is waiting by the door in a peacoat that doesn't fit her skinny frame anymore, hair all done like she's going to a party and not a hospital. Mikey is hopping from foot to foot with nervous energy, and he's got on a faded black tee that says on it 'check meowt', a cartoon cat sitting rather fashionably underneath the scripture. Gerard scoops his car keys up from the bench, waving them in front of his family.

"Your taxi, ladies and gentlemen, is now in service."  
  
  
  
The gig Mikey's dragging him to takes up the whole rest of his morning and most of his afternoon, and he watches with disdain as Mikey blows a pretty big sum of his savings on CDs and hipster-esque apparrel from what little pay he receives from helping his music teacher move equipment after school. Dragging around drum kits and mic stands pays even less than Acquerello's, if you can believe it.

'The city' is hardly even a city, just the name they've given to the busiest part of their shitty little town. They live in the middle of nowhere in Jersey; there are hardly any skyscrapers around, but shitty, towering apartment buildings and overrated bars that Gerard had to drive 20 minutes to get to? You betcha. Mikey walks ahead of a now-awake Gerard, whose arms are stuffed to the brim with the majority of Mikey's shit. They have to walk down a series of narrow alley strips between stores to find their way back to the main road, where Gerard parked about a mile away (after Mikey insisted they go for ice-cream before, because he's an asshole) and Gerard's mind goes to a place he really doesn't want it to. He tries to keep his eyes ahead, but they keep drifting, imagining leering shadows, and the kinds of boys that hide in them.

He can't stop thinking about it. Everything seems to remind him of the way it felt; the cold bricks pressing into his back, the way Frank looked up through his lashes like a fuckin' predator. He was shorter than Gerard by maybe two inches, barely, every visible slip of skin covered in tattoos like a walking, breathing painting. He'd bitten Gerard's lip when he opened his mouth into the kiss, like he was going to eat him whole; his fingers had tightened on Gerard's hip when he'd made a noise.

He can't stop thinking about what would have happen had he stayed, or run into him again when he'd gone looking. Did Frank even want to see him again? He could easily just be a random piece of ass the guy spied on his way to the next best thing, but- well. It certainly hadn't felt that way, when Frank was looking at him. Maybe he's just imagining it. Maybe he's just really desperate and lonely, and would be feeling this way about a trash can if it gave him the time of day.

"You're spacing out," Mikey accuses, pulling Gerard out of his daydream.

"Huh?"

"Ugh," he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Never mind, you weren't listening."

"I totally was," Gerard argues, even as his eyes are drifting back to the brick walls they walk between. "Hey, Mikey, do you think it's weird to see, like, one really hot stranger and then think about them constantly after?"

"Normal for you, or normal for other people?" Mikey snarks.

"I'm just thinking about this movie I watched. This guy totally corners this other guy in an alley."

Mikey scrunches up his nose. "I don't wanna know about the porn you watch."

"It wasn't  _porn._ Never mind, I forgot that you were, like, ten years old."

"I'll tackle you," he warns. He seems to notice their surroundings again then, and comes to a stop, slowing his steps so that Gerard almost runs into his back. "Uh, Gee? I think you're taking us the wrong way, dude."

Gerard looks around, alert suddenly. They  _have_ gone the wrong way, which is weird; Gerard generally considers himself a pro at navigating these streets since he's grown up in the town over, and especially since he started working three jobs and having to walk everywhere when traffic was shitty, or before he had his license. He had ended up like two towns from home once, and found a shortcut straight back within ten minutes just from memory alone. How the hell had they gone the wrong way?

Once he gets a good look at their surroundings, he realises that he has absolutely no idea where they are at all. It's almost as if a daze had come over him; he has no memory of even leaving the street they had been on, which was a pretty straight-forward narrow walk straight back to where he'd parked. Feeling lost, Gerard looks around, running a hand through his hair nervously.

"Gee?" Mikey's brows furrow, and he sounds nervous. "Gee, come on, please tell me we're not lost, you fucker."

"...Shit?"

" _Gerard,_ oh my God. We're totally lost, you jackass, aren't we?"

They are totally lost. Mikey, he realies, has every right to sound panicked, too; despite the fact that it's still mid-afternoon, the clouds are blocking out most of the sun, and the part of town they've just entered is dark enough on its own. The buildings above them are too tall to let much light through at all. The street that lies ahead is desolate, eerily quiet, and, decidely super fucking creepy. Gerard looks at it carefully, chewing his lip. They're standing on a cross roads; their options are currently double back- a creepy road he doesn't even remember walking to get here in the first place- cross the road- more creepy paths- or turn right, where a walkway between two buildings seems to lead them back to the main part of town. Considering all of his otherwise street-smart knowledge, Gerard decides that the latter is most sensible, and, taking Mikey by the wrist just in case, heads that way.  
  
"Mom's gonna kick your ass if you get me killed, y'know."

"Shut up," Gerard says, but there's a real inkling of fear ebbing its way into his voice now. The buildings on either side are stretched high enough to make him dizzy, and the haphazardly hung fire escapes and intrusions hanging out of open windows block out a great deal of their remaining light. The fact that it's broad daylight does nothing to calm the rising nerves in Gerard's gut, singing out like his blood. He really should have been just watching where he was going, but he'd gone and relied too much on muscle memory. Why can't he see the end of the walkway yet?

Mikey jumps at the sound of a falling piece of metal some way's back behind, earning a snicker from Gerard. Fear flutters in his chest for a brief moment, too, but one glance behind them confirms that it had just been an abandoned piece of trash slipping, disturbed, down the side of one building, where it had been propped up. Nothing to worry about, stupid. Who would even follow them out here? He's still just paranoid about last night, no doubt.

Gerard barely has time to finish the thought before a black figure is darting out in front of him, seemingly having fallen from the sky.

He and Mikey jump back at the same time, only to come in contact with another, taller figure behind them.

Mikey shouts at the top of his lungs.

Apparently unconcerned with the noise his brother is making, the first figure, a tall dude clad in a shapely black trench with a hood that conceals the majority of his face- and what the Hell, Gerard thinks, because  _seriously?_ Horror movie villain, much?- steps forward and threatens the two of them with a knife.

No, not a knife, he realises after a moment: an athame. Not having any time to dwell on how the hell he even  _knows_ that word, or why it had jumped to him so suddenly, Gerard lets out a startled breath as the blade is pressed to his throat. He raises both hands, swallowing thickly.

"Look," he says in a calm tone that contradicts the shaking in his hands. "We don't have a lot of money. I have a fifty in my pocket, and you could-"

"Shut up," the man snaps. He nods his head at the one standing behind him and Mikey. The other dude, dressed much the same- as if they were both on their way to the shittiest cosplay convention ever before they decided to jump the Way brothers- comes around to grab Mikey by his arms. He shouts again, thrashing wildly, but the guy covers it with his hand immediately, seeming more annoyed than anything.

"Seriously," Gerard pleads, looking between the two of them. "Just take our stuff, man, we've got like fifty worth of band merch in one of those bags."

Mikey shouts something, muffled into the guy's palm, that sounds suspiciously like  _touch my merch and I'll kill you, motherfucker._ Gerard bites his lip and starts to sweat with the hope that the other two don't speak Mikey Way. "Really, just take whatever you want, and you can totally be on your way-"

"Shut up!" The first man demands again, pressing the blade a little harder. It nicks at the skin of Gerard's neck, deadly sharp, and he gasps out a surprised breath as he feels blood well beneath the cold metal. The man edges close enough for Gerard to see the bottom of his face through the concealing hood. He's grinning.  
  
"Now," he says, purring like a movie villain, the word a patient drawl even though his earlier tone had suggested he was running a tight schedule. "If you'll just be so kind as to tell us where Frank Iero is, maybe we'll spare your brother. What do you think, Alos?"

_Alos._ Gerard would blanch at the name, because seriously? His life is a fucking daytime tv movie special on vampires or some shit. As it is, his brain is too busy suddenly trying to catch up with what the guy just said.  _Frank,_ he's thinking, brain working a million miles a minute.  _Frank._ He knows that name. He knows that name because the guy that kissed him last night said it was his.

"I have no idea who you're talking about," he says, trying to keep his face blank. Is he in a gang? Is this a gang thing? A totally awesome, terrifying, vampire gang in broad-daylight Jersey type gang thing? "Please just let us go. Take what you want. I've never heard that name before in my life."

"Don't play dumb," snaps the man still holding Mikey. Mikey's gone kind of slack, and is partway between looking scared shitless and looking bored. Panic starts to pulse through Gerard's blood like morphine. "We know exactly who you are, and exactly what your familiar is up to. You can't hide your face from us any longer, alright, shadow boy?"

Familiar? Shadow boy?

Jesus Christ, he was totally right. Freaky vampire movie.

"As soon as the sun goes behind those clouds," hisses the man, "all the little shadows come out."

Gerard can feel himself starting to sweat beneath his clothes. Movie-cool or not, these guys are probably a part of a cult. And way more likely than not completely crazy. Thoughts racing, spreading like wild fire, Gerard curls and uncurls his hands into fists as he tries to find a way to worm out of the situation. "Look," he says, noxiously calm, "I don't have a clue who the hell you're talking about, but maybe I can help. There's a gang I know of. Sometimes they meet near the Riverview cemetery, y'know?" That's a way's into the city, right in Trenton; away from here. "I'll bet they know who you're talking about. Now, if you could just let me and my brother go-"

But Gerard doesn't get to finish his sentence, because in the next second yet another figure drops from above them, lands squarely on the guy holding Mikey, and knocks them both unconscious to the ground.  
  
Alos bares his teeth and spins around to face the assailant, but barely has time to extend his weapon towards the guy before it gets kicked out of his hand, and the man who has knocked his companion to the ground darts for Alos' throat.

Gerard rushes to Mikey's side, trying to shake him awake. They need to go, like,  _ten minutes ago,_ and if Mikey doesn't come to, Gerard's seriously considering hauling his fat ass over his shoulder and just booking it. 

He tries dragging Mikey, but doesn't get very far, however, because the moment he turns to really flee, a hand closes around his ankle, nearly tripping him. The hood of the man on the ground has been knocked off, revealing a shaved head. But that isn't the thing that makes Gerard cry out like he's been burnt. It's suddenly very, very plain as to why the two attackers had been wearing their hoods up. The man grabbing at Gerard's ankle has three eyes. 

The third is a tattoo that sits above his brow and between his two others, which are milky white and swallowed almost entirely by pupil. The tattooed eye is black, bottomless, staring up at Gerard like it wants his fucking soul. The man only has to tug one more time for Gerard to spring back to life, and, dropping to his knees, he darts for the discarded weapon, the athame, and holds it up as a warning. But that doesn't stop the man. He darts for Gerard, fingers clawed- for his throat, maybe, or something else equally macabre- but doesn't get that far, because with a startled cry and a push of his arms, Gerard drives the weapon straight into the man's shoulder.

His first thought is: Oh God; oh God I've  _killed someone._ There's a sick sizzling noise as the guy falls backwards, screeching out dramatics as he grips the flesh at his shoulder; which is  _smoking,_ Gerard realises, trying to put two and two together and figure out when his life became a fight sequence in a comic book. 

He watches unmoving as the man thrashes, screams, and finally just goes still, either dead or passed out or God knows what from the weapon. Whatever had happened to his other attacked, Alos, he's stopped screaming, too. Gerard turns to hold his weapon out anyway, shaking, head spinning, and kicks his brother's limp body behind him absently with a foot. He lets out a breath as he sees that an equally gruesome and dramatic fate has met the other man. He's stopped moving, a slumped pile on the ground, and a similar weapon- an athame- sticks out of his shoulder. There is blood  _everywhere._ Gerard gets to his feet, and wonders if he's going to be sick.

He turns his attention on the third stranger just in time to see him furiously wiping blood from his collar, and realises something at the exact same moment the guy decides to look at him. It's the stranger from last night. Frank.

"Ugh," he says, sounding genuinely disgusted. "This definitely isn't gonna fuckin' wash out."

Gerard has kind of stopped moving. Beside him, Mikey is still very much passed out, and his band merch lays in a scattered pile at his feet amongst the blood and pavement. Gerard keeps his knife pointed firmly at Frank, and tries to stop his arms from shaking. Frank looks at the knife the way you might look at a dead bird.

"Is that for me?" he asks, pointing a finger.

Gerard drops the knife and runs both hands through his hair, getting blood in it. "I'm a murderer," he whispers, horrified.

"They're not dead," Frank says, lifting an eyebrow. He steps over the body like it is anyway, briefly kicking the guy in the side on his way across to Gerard. Gerard is still in way too much shock to move, and lets Frank approach him, even though they're both covered in blood. "Hey," he says, trying to catch Gerard's eye. "You're totally a hero, dude. Those guys would have been on my ass for weeks if not for you."

"I just potentially mortally wounded some asshole because I made out with a dude in a gang!" Gerard chokes, not believing it even as he says it; it sounds like a movie plot, for Christ's sake, and he's  _saying_ it,  _out loud._

"Um, wow," Frank says, brows furrowing. "Not a gang. And pretty amazing smoke machine thing they've got going on there, if they're human. Or do humans usually flare up when you stab them?"

"My life is a bad movie," Gerard mutters to himself, feeling his lips turn up into a grin. Here he is: losing it. It's been a long week, and he kind of just wants to curl up on the ground amongst all the blood and God-knows-what-else Jersey disaster, and go to sleep. "I'm actually having a nightmare right now."

"You're not," says Frank, and then he smiles, and there are those dimples again. He really needs to stop doing that. Gerard looks away, jaw tightening. 

"Who the fuck are you?" he questions, suddenly aware that there are tears, hot and frustrated, threatening to prickle in his eyes. Frank looks genuinely thoughtful, pursing his lips.

"If I tell you who I am, it'll definitely ruin the fun. I've never really liked lying to you, either, so do you really want to know?"

"Of course I want to know!" Gerard snaps, gesturing to the two unconscious bodies. "I just stabbed some guy who came after me because of you! So if you're in a gang, or something, and you've decided- I don't even know. But I'm not a part of it, okay?"

"Alright," says Frank slowly. His eyes glimmer. "I'm your familiar."

"I don't know what that  _means,_ " sobs Gerard, legs buckling. He just wants a  _bubble bath,_ for fuck's sake. Maybe a nice gin and tonic, a gory zombie movie; actually, scratch that last part. He's seen enough blood today. And seriously, where the hell is all the blood even  _coming_ from? He only stabbed the one guy.

Frank is in front of him in an instant, steadying him by the elbow as he threatens to give out under the weight of everything hitting him at once. He has no idea how he's gonna get Mikey home, now, or what the hell he's gonna tell his mom when they both show up covered in blood. He gives up with a cry, and lets his weight fall on Frank, who gently eases him onto the ground.

"My name is Frank Iero," he says slowly, watching for Gerard's reaction as he shakes and tries to make sense of the situation. "I was your familiar many, many lives ago. Do you know what that means? Your name is Gerard Way."

"Stalker," Gerard tries, but even as he says it he knows it isn't true. His life really is a goddamn comic book. His eyes fly to Frank's face suddenly, and they're glittering, afraid. "Are you a vampire?"

"What? No." Frank reels back, looking disgusted. "Seriously. Do I look like a fuckin' vampire to you?"

"Well, I don't know what a familiar is!" Gerard huffs again, seriously annoyed, and seriously exhausted. He could have just gone to work today. He snaps his fingers, suddenly remembering. "Oh wait, maybe I do. Isn't that, like... kinda like the cat, in Sabrina the teenage-"

"Yes, you're Gerard the teenage fuck-up," Frank says, unamused. "And I'm your black cat. Meow, motherfucker."

"Well, what the hell does it mean, then?"

"In witchcraft," Frank says slowly, "a familiar is someone you have a bond with, a very particular bond. For some people, this can be animals-" He rolls his eyes when Gerard grins at that, holding up a hand to stop him from speaking. "And for others, it can be a person. In your case, you decided to bond with a punk-nerd shadow demon. Nice going, kid."

"If you think I believe you," Gerard says, "for even a second, then-"

"Your middle name is Arthur. The only class you've ever paid attention in is art, because drawing makes you feel like you're actually accomplishing something on your own, rather than just stringing a bunch of useless facts together to impress teachers who don't care about you."

"This is weird. This is definitely weird. Being awesome at stalking doesn't mean-"

"You write songs in your underwear and birds creep you out and you're scared of needles. I know because, like-" Frank licks his lips, and oh, Gerard certainly doesn't miss  _that-_ "in one of your past lives, when you were in Jersey, too, your mom made you and Mikey vax because of a measles outbreak in your area, and you honest to God nearly ran away. It's the same reason you won't get a tattoo, right? That can't have changed."

Gerard's mouth has gone dry. He must look as pale as he feels, suddenly overcome by the absence of sun and the overwhelming amount of pressing shadows moving in from the surrounding, crowding alley walls, because Frank's face lights up. The dimples are back at full blast, a shit-eating grin that Gerard's not sure whether he wants to smack off of him yet.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm totally right. It's not even the blood that freaks you out, because you kind of like that, right? Hey, you still think tattoos are hot?"

"What the hell," says Gerard, because yeah. That just about sums up everything he's feeling right now. "What the  _hell._ I don't need this. Jesus Christ, I'm like, a few weeks off from a bonus, and I have exams soon, and I just- really, really don't need this, dude. My mom's sick. I can't afford to be fucking around with some whacked out stalker just because he's dedicated enough to have scoped out a few really random and creepily personal facts about me and oh my God why are you rolling your sleeves up."

"So I can move the bodies, dude." Frank says it like it's obvious, punctuating the flippant tone of his voice with an equally flippant shrug. Gerard's kind of too busy screaming inside of his head, though, because it's suddenly very apparent that his neck isn't the only place covered in tattoos.  _Covered._ The universe hates Gerard and wants him to die. "Is there a problem?" Frank asks casually, but one look at his face confirms that he knows exactly what Gerard is suddenly gaping at.

"No," he insists- wheezes, whatever- and gives a harsh swallow, because there's no way in hell he's letting this guy think he's got the upper hand. Even if he does have... really nice arms...

His gay ass is gonna get him killed. By a stalker.

"If you're still twisting your panties over thinking I'm stalking you," Frank says, leaning down to heave one of the guys up and drag him under the cover of a dumpster, "you can knock it off. I could go on for hours about all the shit I know about you, y'know. Are you still allergic to cats?"

"Oh, my God, this is fucking bizarre. You're really not lying, are you?"

Frank makes a face like he's considering and then pops the word out like he's snapping gum. "Nope."

"And I'm really... you're really... this is some sort of freaky witchy thing? You're some sort of freaky witch thing from one of my past lives?"

"Shadow demon," he corrects, then pulls a face. "That sounds lame every time I say it. I'm not, like- not technically a demon. It's more like an accidental mutation of witchcraft."

"What the fuck. Do I get freaky shadow powers too?"

Frank shrugs. "Sure, if you study hard enough. You were pretty damn powerful, way back when."

"This is Halloween-town levels of creepy cool. Tell me I get a hat or a cape or something."

"Oh, you bet. Black skinny jeans haven't always been your style at  _all._ "

Gerard pouts at the sarcasm, but he's too distracted to really be offended. If what Frank's saying is true- and it's starting to sound pretty damn legit- then that means that Gerard's a witch, and Frank is his... familiar, or whatever. Does that mean that they were  _together_ in all of these past lives Frank is talking about? The way he crowded Gerard in against the wall, looked at him like he  _owned_ him... well, that certainly said something, didn't it?

Frank's eyes, what he remembers as a watery green, like electric moss with the volume turned up, seem almost black now with the sheer size of his pupils, like he's begging Gerard to see past all this other noise. He tries to focus, but it's hard to see past the still high cheekbones, the delicate skin, the dark tumble of hair. Frank is grinning at Gerard again, the gesture almost  _diffident._ The edges of his canines are sharp; not sharp enough to really be grotesque, but nonhuman all the less. Gerard can't stop staring.

"I'd make a wicked Halloween costume," Frank says, fluttering his eyelashes.

Gerard tries to snap out of it. "You totally beat the shit out of that guy," he babbles, continuing to be eloquent. "And you've got those teeth and that thing going on with your eyes-"

"There's nothing wrong with my eyes-"

"Where they're all, like, all-knowing and mysterious and gorgeous or whatever. And you're my familiar, right? What the fuck does that mean?"

Frank tilts his head. "Did you just call me gorgeous?"

" _No._ What am I supposed to do with all this information, by the way? Narrate a goddamn horror comic book series?"

"You're supposed to be a witch, dude."

Gerard fights the urge to snort. He ends up scoffing, kind of choking, and then shakes his head, looking up through the tangle of black to scowl at Frank. "There's no such thing as witches. This is crazy, just so we're clear."

"Come on," says Frank, arching an eyebrow, "you know that's not true. Doesn't your mom have all those books on Wicca?"

"How do you  _know_ that-"

"Gee, please. Now's not really the time. Look, if you really don't believe me, all I need is some blood and feathers and chalk and I can show you a decent necromancy spell- with smoke and theatrics and stuff, you'll love that- and you can finally shut up with the whole Bella Swan how-long-have-you-been-seventeen routine. How does that sound?"

"How old  _are_ you?" Gerard questions, moving back to get a good look at Frank. "And how long have you been that old, if we're going by cliches here-"

"I'm nineteen, technically," says Frank, rolling his eyes, "and a lady never reveals her age. How long I've been wandering this shit-hole of a planet is my business and my business only." His stare burns into Gerard's for a second, hot and present and definitely doing some questionable things to the moistness-factor of his palms. Gross. "Come back with me to my apartment. I'll show you whatever you wanna see, and tell you whatever you wanna know. You might be in danger, Gee. If you don't want to go with me, I'll understand, but I don't think I can promise to totally stay away."

Gerard swallows. He knows the offer is a good one. He's done crazier things than go back to a stranger's apartment in the middle of the day to thank him for stopping two strangers who jumped him and... well, maybe he hasn't, but it can't be  _that_ crazy, right? He was just held at knife-point. It's not like God can put him in much more danger for the day.

"What about Mikey?" he questions weakly, knowing by the sound of his own voice that he's already said yes. Frank smiles.

"He can come. He's not about to wake up any time soon. He's fine," he interrupts, before Gerard can fully open his mouth to ask, "if you're wondering. The fall knocked him out and he's gonna have a nasty bruise, but I can probably fix that. Witch's familiar, and all." He wiggles his fingers ominously. 

Gerard takes in a deep, steadying breath, trying to get his shit together. Like, all of his shit, which is currently approximately scattered six ways from Sunday. He takes another breath and puts his hands to his knees, trying to wipe the sweat off.

"Okay," he says. "I'll come to your apartment."

 

 


End file.
